Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5) Elizabeth Keysian (pocket ebook reader txt) 📖

Chapter Twenty-Two

Cecily stumbled, coughing, onto the cobbles, her bare feet chilled by their touch. But the cold was welcome—the cold brought her to her senses, casting off the last drugging veils of sleep. This was no dream, no nightmare from which she could hope to awaken. Her home was truly aflame, and she needed to get as far away as possible.

A man grabbed her and hauled her bodily away from the cottage, then ran back to the door, picking up something from the ground. Good—already, other villagers were aware of their plight. They might be able to save the building.

Now at a safe distance, she spun back to look at the cottage. Where was Allan? Where was Charlemagne?

Her heart thundered so hard she thought it would explode, and her fingers shook with fear. Her lungs ached, and she felt sick, but that was not important—she was out now and safe. They were not.

Then, to her enormous relief, she saw Charlemagne swoop down and land on a neighboring roof. He would be too terrified to come to her straightaway, but no matter—she’d recapture him once the flames had died down.

As her eyes remained pinned to the doorway, she became aware of shouts and noise as more people rushed forth from their cottages, carrying buckets of water which were passed from hand-to-hand before their contents were thrown at her cottage. Someone had fetched the long hook that hung up on the wall of the church and had started dragging the burning roof thatch away from the building in an effort to save the walls.

But still, Allan hadn’t emerged, and no one seemed to be looking for him. Of course, everyone would expect her to have been alone. How selfish of her to demand he save Charlemagne and the treasure! His life was too valuable to put at risk—she loved him too deeply to cope without him. Foolish girl! She was about to rush back to the cottage when a painful grip held her back.

“Holy Mary, let go of me. There’s someone in there!” She tugged at the hand that held her, infuriated and horrified.

“Would that be Master Smythe, by any chance?”

Ice flooded her veins—Master Kennett Clark!

“Does it matter who?” she spluttered. “We must save him!” Allan was still not out of the burning building—something must have gone seriously wrong.

“It is Allan, isn’t it? The lucky cur. I’ll go and get him out for you. But there’s a condition attached.”

What? Why should there be a condition? Surely, even a coldhearted knave like Kennett Clark would make some attempt to save him?

“You don’t want everyone to know your shame, do you? I’ll go in and help him out through the back window. No one will see, and under cover of all that smoke, your reputation will be unsullied. Just give me what I want, and all will be well.”

She struggled in his arms. “Leave me be. I’ll strike no devil’s bargain with you.”

“Then say farewell to your lover.” Kennett held something in front of her eyes. She blinked, then sucked in a horrified breath. Her key! It must have fallen in her scramble to get out.

The truth slammed into her with nauseating clarity. As if in a nightmare, she saw the latch of the cottage door move rapidly up and down, saw the door shaking on its hinges as Allan struggled to get out.

But Master Clark had locked him in.

She made a grab for the key, but the villain held it out of range and uttered a hollow laugh.

“Every second you hesitate, the closer to death he comes. Say you will be my whore—at least until I tire of you—and you shall have the key. If you don’t comply, you’ll never see Allan again.”

She fought, bit and kicked, trying to break the man’s hold on her, not caring how much she might hurt him or herself, but he was the stronger, and the key always remained just out of reach.

“What the devil is happening here?” A stocky fellow clad in a dark doublet and hose had hurried up, brandishing a baton in one hand.

“Naught that would interest you, Master Wright—nothing of a criminal nature. A house fire, and a terrified and distraught damsel. I’m stopping her from rushing back into the flames to save her trinkets, as you can see.”

Master Wright? Was that not the corrupt constable who had once incarcerated Allan? If he was in league with Master Clark again, Allan was doomed.

“There’s a man trapped inside,” she choked, but her voice was drowned out by a gasp from the villagers. She turned to look as white flame licked along one of the roof timbers before it let out an unearthly groan and subsided into the middle of the cottage in a shower of sparks.

“Allan!” Her voice was part scream, part sob. Still, the key was held out of reach. The latch rattled ever more frantically.

She heard a high whistling sound and realized Charlemagne had taken off from his roof and was circling nearby, out of range of the billowing smoke.

Wrenching one arm free from Clark’s grip, she made a gesture she knew the bird would recognize, then ducked out of harm’s way.

Like a speeding arrow, Charlemagne dived straight at Master Clark. His talons caught in the man’s hat, but in his vanity, the fellow had pinned it to his head at a jaunty angle, so it failed to come off. There was a brief battle of wings, sharp talons, and flapping hands. When Charlemagne’s claws raked the back of Master Clark’s hand, he yelped in pain and dropped the key. Cecily threw herself down to retrieve it, but the constable was there before her.

“Keep clear, Mistress,” he ordered, then raced toward the cottage door. Flinging one arm over his face to protect himself, he unlocked it and flung it open.

Allan, smoke streaming from his clothes, lurched out and collapsed into the constable’s arms.

Regardless of her own safety, Cecily chased forward and flung herself to her